Chapter 186: SinBin Thanksgiving III

JAKE’S POV

The turkey was a miracle wrapped in crispy, blackened skin.

We carried the giant twenty-two-pound turkey inside on a bent aluminum baking tray. Steam poured off it like an offering to the hockey gods.

The skin had blistered into a deep, mahogany crust, crackling and shattering under the edge of Bear’s carving knife.

When he made the first cut into the breast, juice literally poured onto the sheet.

"Holy mother of God," Milo breathed, pressing both hands against the counter. "It actually worked."

"Of course it worked," I scoffed. "The brake-line syringe provides superior hydraulic pressure for deep-tissue seasoning."

"Never say those words in a food-prep environment again," Bear grunted, but a rare, proud smirk tugged at the corner of his soot-stained mouth.

We brought two folding beer pong tables out of the basement and shoved them end-to-end across the living room. We lined the tables with paper grocery bags and layers of paper towels, setting out stacks of red Solo cups and paper plates.

Within ten minutes, our makeshift banquet was groaning under the weight of thirty people’s holiday contributions.

Piles of carved, golden-brown turkey sat alongside aluminum trays of Swedish veggie spring rolls, three giant bowls of mac and cheese, bags of jalapeño Doritos, instant boxed stuffing, and the engineering grad student’s steaming chicken curry.

People crammed in shoulder-to-shoulder on mismatched folding chairs, overturned milk crates, and the living room sofa.

Nobody cared about silverware. Nobody cared that the house smelled faintly of scorched motor oil and sage.

And even on a cold day, the SinBin was warm from wall to wall.

"Hey!" shouted a junior defender from the far end of the table, raising his Solo cup high. "To Bear for not killing us, and to Jake for putting out the shed!"

"Hear, hear!" thirty voices roared in unison, followed by the clatter of plastic cups banging against the tables.

Bear dipped his head, his ears turning slightly red as he shoveled a mound of turkey onto his plate.

I looked down the table, watching the room come alive.

Two cross-country runners were trading stories with an exchange student about running in sub-zero snowstorms. Three guys from the rink crew were piling chicken curry over white rice, laughing until their sides shook.

Down on the floor, Milo was sitting with his back against the TV console, holding a drumstick in one hand and a plate of rolls in the other.

His phone was sitting face-down on the rug beside him.

Bear grabbed a second plate heaped with carved dark meat and walked over, dropping down onto an overturned laundry basket next to the rookie.

"Eat," Bear commanded gently, nudging Milo’s shoulder with his forearm.

Milo picked at the crust of his roll. "I’m eating, Big Man."

"You’re picking like a bird," Bear said. He took a massive bite of turkey, chewed slowly, and pointed with the bone toward the phone on the rug. "You still staring at that text from Maine?"

Milo’s jaw worked silently. He stared at his socks.

"She wants to talk over winter break," Milo muttered in a barely audible voice over the chatter across the room. "That’s like girl code for ’I’m breaking up with you before New Year’s.’"

Bear didn’t laugh... he didn’t offer some cheap locker room joke either; he just leaned his elbows onto his knees, looking down at the kid.

"You’re nineteen, Milo," Bear replied. "You came three hundred miles from home to play Division I puck. She stayed back in Bangor. Some people change when the map changes."

"I thought we had a plan," Milo whispered.

"Plans are just guesses you make before life actually happens," Bear said quietly. "If she’s drifting, it’s not because you failed her, kid. It’s just growing pains. You can’t chain someone to a memory of high school if they’re looking for an exit door."

Milo looked up, his eyes shining in the dim lamplight. "Did it hurt when it happened to you?"

"Felt like getting checked into the boards by a runaway Zamboni," Bear admitted with a soft grunt. "For about three weeks. Then you realize the rink is still frozen, your skates still fit, and you’ve got twenty brothers who have your back no matter what."

Bear bumped his shoulder against Milo’s.

"You’re not alone up here, rookie. Don’t forget that."

Milo took a slow, deep breath. His shoulders visibly loosened, dropping three inches.

He nodded once, wiped his nose on the cuff of his sleeve, and took a massive bite out of the drumstick. A genuine, goofy smile finally broke across his face. "Damn. This hot sauce marinade is actually ridiculous."

"Told you," Bear grinned.

I leaned against the kitchen doorway, watching the two of them.

My hand slipped into my sweatpants pocket, fingers brushing against my phone.

The $250 Venmo payment from Boca Raton was still sitting in my account.

My entire life, my parents had treated love like an invoice. A check to skip my hockey tournaments. A bank transfer to avoid an awkward custody weekend. An electronic apology for an empty chair on holidays.

They thought sending money was kindness.

They never understood that all I ever wanted was someone to sit on the damn porch with me.

I looked around the packed, chaotic living room.

At the dented walls, the peeling wallpaper, the yellow fire-retardant powder still dusting the baseboards, and the thirty misfits who had nowhere else to go tonight.

This broken, drafty barn wasn’t just a rental house.

It was home.

And these idiots were the family I actually chose.

Suddenly, a thick cloud of acrid white smoke poured out of the kitchen oven.

"Shit!" someone yelled from the hallway. "The garlic bread!"

A freshman sprinted toward the stove, yanking the oven door open to reveal a tray of garlic baguettes that had transformed into glowing briquettes of pure carbon.

A second later, the hallway smoke detector kicked in.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

The piercing, high-pitched screech tore through the house.

"Open the front door!" Milo shouted, jumping to his feet and wildly swinging a dish towel at the ceiling unit.

"Not the front door, it’s twenty degrees outside!" Bear bellowed, grabbing a cookie sheet and fanning the smoke toward the back screen.

Half the living room started laughing and chanting. Someone turned up the music to cover the noise of the alarm. Soon, the kitchen was full of smoke, laughter, and flying towels.

Right in the middle of the bedlam, my phone on the kitchen counter began to vibrate violently.

The ringtone was drowned out by the smoke alarm, but the screen pulsed with bright, urgent light.

I walked over, picked it up, and choked on a laugh.

Incoming FaceTime... Nora Bennett

I wiped a fresh smear of black soot across my forehead, tapped the green button, and raised the phone to eye level.

The screen connected.

Nora and Knox appeared side-by-side in high definition.

The contrast was comical.

They sat in a cozy, brightly lit kitchen that looked like something out of a holiday commercial. A beautifully carved turkey sat on a dark wood table behind them, a pitcher of warm cider rested on the counter, and soft lighting highlighted their faces.

Knox was leaning right over Nora’s shoulder, wearing a faded floral apron over his Henley, his arm wrapped firmly around her waist.

The second the video connected, Knox took one look at me.

His eyes swept over my yellow-powdered hoodie, the soot smeared across my cheeks, the cloud of white smoke churning behind my head, and the frantic sight of Bear and Milo battling the ceiling with towels.

The smoke detector shrieked straight through my microphone: BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

Nora’s eyes went wide as saucers, her hand flying to her mouth. "Jake! Is the SinBin on fire?!"

Knox didn’t even flinch.

A slow smirk spread across his face, his gray eyes dancing with pure amusement. He leaned his chin right against Nora’s collarbone.

"Told you, Bennett. Ten bucks," Knox said, looking directly into the camera. "Jake, did you burn down the neighborhood, or did you actually manage to eat?"

"Never better, Captain!" I shouted over the blaring alarm, flashing a wide, triumphant grin. "Two fire extinguishers discharged, the tool shed survived with minor cosmetic damage, and the bird was an absolute culinary masterpiece!"

"Why is there yellow powder on your eyebrows?" Nora laughed, leaning closer to the lens. "What did you do?!"

"Nothing lethal, I promise!" I declared proudly. "We’ve got thirty people in the living room crushing turkey and chicken curry! How’s domestic bliss in Oakhaven? You look real pretty in that apron, Sheridan!"

Knox gave a low chuckle, tightening his arm around Nora as he pressed a quick, unbothered kiss to the side of her temple right on screen.

"The apron stays," Knox murmured. "And the food here didn’t require an evacuation order."

"Soft," I scoffed, shaking my head. "You’re getting soft out in the suburbs, Knox."

"Just wait until morning skate on Monday, Jake," Knox challenged, the familiar competitive spark flashing in his eyes. "Save me some drumstick."

"If Milo doesn’t inhale it first, it’s in the freezer," I promised.

Milo suddenly leaped into frame behind me, towel in hand, screaming into the phone: "Happy Thanksgiving, Nora! Knox, he used the brake-line syringe on the meat!"

Knox’s jaw dropped in disbelief. "Jake? You didn’t."

Nora buried her face in Knox’s chest, laughing so hard her shoulders shook, before lifting her head back toward the screen.

"Alright, we’re letting you boys go before the fire department actually knocks," Nora said, smiling warmly. "I still have to call Priya and check in on her before it gets too late."

"The hermit routine?" I asked, grinning.

"She swore she was spending seventy-two uninterrupted hours couch-rotting in sweatpants with popcorn and bad holiday movies," Nora laughed, shaking her head. "Knowing her, she probably hasn’t moved an inch, but I want to make sure Room 304 hasn’t completely devolved into chaos."

"Tell her Happy Thanksgiving from the SinBin," I said, wiping a fresh smudge of soot off my cheek. "And tell her we saved her some hydraulic turkey. If she gets hungry, she can come around or I can make the delivery."

"I’ll pass that along," Nora smiled. "Take care of each other, Jake."

"Don’t burn the roof off before Friday," Knox ordered with a laugh. "See you all soon, Jake."

"Bring back pie, Sheridan!" I barked. "Happy Thanksgiving!"

I tapped the red icon, ending the call.

In the hallway, Bear finally detached the smoke detector with a butter knife and yanked the nine-volt battery.

The shrieking died instantly.

A collective cheer rose from the living room, followed by the opening guitar riff of an old rock anthem blasting through the JBL speaker.

I tucked my phone back into my pocket, grabbed a fresh Solo cup, and walked out into the warm, smoky room to rejoin the feast.